


Locks and Their Various Uses

by Whyistheskyblue



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Slow Burn, There will probably be some flashbacks to Grindelgraves, This is turning out to be, set after the first movie, slight au in which Newt doesn't go back to england, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:40:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whyistheskyblue/pseuds/Whyistheskyblue
Summary: After spending almost a year locked in his own cellar, Percival Graves fights to reclaim control of his life and his department. As he struggles against doubts about his loyalty and his competence, the last thing he needs is to become enamored with the stranger from England who leaves chaos in his wake.   Updates weekly with 2K chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

Silence stretches between the two men, pulled long and thin like salt water taffy. From his spot on the floor Percival Graves has the unique pleasure of getting to look up into his own face. He can see the spot under his chin where he nicked himself shaving this morning, the mole that rests slightly under his jaw. When he swallows he can see his adam’s apple bob. His other self seems to be waiting for something - a sharp retort or defiant gesture of some sort, but Graves simply closes his eyes and lets the weight of the cuffs attached to the water pipes steady him. 

His other self clicks his tongue and turns from the room, letting the door swing shut for what (he had just promised) would be the last time. Death, Graves supposes, can’t be worse any worse than falling asleep already is. 

* * *

The warmth that surrounds him convinces Graves he must have done something right in his life and gone to heaven. The ache that radiates from his bones and the constant click of heels passing outside his room quickly convince him that the warmth is just distant hellfire. Hell, after all, is probably bureaucratic enough that business professional dress is required. It’s with that thought, and a wry twist of his lips, that Graves slips back to sleep. 

* * *

The next time Percival wakes up he knows for a fact that he is alive. Not even the devil himself could recreate the firm look of disinterest that is etched into Madame Picquery’s face as she regards him. Once she’s noticed that he’s awake it flickers momentarily into something akin to fondness before slipping into exasperation. He doesn’t hold that first look against her, much the same as she doesn’t berate him for scowling at whoever enters his office. 

“Director Graves.” 

"Madame President.” His voice is rough from disuse, and he can’t help but wonder how long it had been since he had last spoken to his other self. Giving up his voice had been the last gesture of defiance he had - the ability to not react to the madman who so desperately craved an audience. 

“Does the phrase _“Will we die, just a little?”_ mean anything to you?” Picquery shifts forward in her seat, eyes narrow. How upset he is surprises Graves. After being held captive for (months? years?) the first thing from Picquery’s mouth is a question that probably relates to a case. The hurt must have flickered across his face; the president sits back in her chair, lacking the good grace to apologize for her faux pas. Or perhaps she doesn’t believe one was committed. 

“No.” Graves focuses on the small patch of blue outside the window, just beyond Picquery’s head. “I can’t say it does.” A small huff of disappointment passes the president’s lips. 

“That’s unfortunate.” Picquery lets the moment trail into silence, her purpose for being there suddenly gone. “How are you feeling?” The question is a half hearted attempt at politeness, asked too late for concern to be the true purpose of the visit. 

“Tired.” Graves extends as a truce. She isn’t obligated to pretend to be concerned, and he isn’t obligated to further the conversation. 

“I’ll leave you to your rest.” Her expression never changes, but something in her demeanor shifts. She becomes less urgent. He’s a problem that has been shelved, expected to work out on his own with enough time. 

“Madame President.” 

“Director Graves.” Their interaction took less than five minutes. Percival rolls over and tries to sleep. 

* * *

Weeks pass with Graves confined to the hospital. The autumn rain becomes snow, and the nurses chatter about how it got cold too early. Percival learns to get around with the help of a wheelchair, then a walker, then a cane. Muscles that had atrophied regain mass. The nurses know it’s time for him to leave when they come in to find that he’s cleaned four of the hospital rooms, levitating the beds and controlling brooms without looking up from his book. They usher him back to his quarters with the promise to send the doctor later that day. 

“I hear you’re looking to be reassigned to the janitorial staff.” Picquery stands just inside the door, waiting for an invitation to sit. Graves grants it, nodding to the visitors chair. She looks around, poorly masked curiosity noting the changes that had been made to the room since she had last sat in the same spot. It’s not the same chair. Gone is the cheap metal that had pressed uncomfortably into her back. In its place is a velveteen armchair, the soft gray inconspicuous against the sterile walls. Floral arrangements in various stages of death and decay crowd the windowsill. One wall holds a menagerie of get well cards and pictures, tacked carefully in place by the nurses. “Your staff?” She gestures vaguely around. 

“Guilty because they didn’t notice the madman who was masquerading in my face.” He sets his book on the bedside table, next to potted bamboo. “Tina.” He explains, a fond smile skirting the corners of his mouth. “She said I couldn’t kill it if I tried.” 

“He had her -” 

"Reassigned. Yes, I heard.” Of all his staff, Tina was the one most likely to notice something had gone amiss. It had been clever of Grindelwald to use one of her passionate outbursts to have her reassigned somewhere she wouldn’t be able to harm his plans. It had been clever of Grindelwald to make her feel betrayed so she wouldn’t keep harassing him in his office. 

“Should I be looking forward to you coming in on Monday?” This is Picquery’s expression of guilt. For not noticing that he had been replaced. For her earlier eagerness and disregard of his health. It isn't flowers that will die or a card that will be discarded. It's an offer of normalcy. 

“Monday’s a bank holiday. Armistice.” 

“That’s never stopped you before. If I recall you tried to work Christmas during your first year as director.” She raises an eyebrow at him, tilting her head to one side. 

“I had worked it every year as an Auror.” He challenges gently, falling into the rhythm of an old and comfortable argument. 

“You had the flu that year.” She retorts as she stands, multi colored robe swaying around her ankles. “And if I recall, it became pneumonia because you refused to stay home and rest.” She looks down at him, disinterest once again slotting across her face. “Director Graves.” 

“Madame President.” She swirls from the room, her nod signaling to the doctor that it is safe to enter and discharge Graves. 

* * *

The flowers had just been beginning to bloom in their window boxes the last time he had walked up the path to his front door. The little old woman he sublet from (dead now, he hadn’t asked if Grindelwald had done it) had waved to him from the second story window and called down that he absolutely must come up for tea. He had waved back and shook his head and stepped inside. Now, retracing the same steps, there’s snow in the window boxes and his key refuses to work, forcing him to _alohomora_ the lock. 

Someone had cleaned and restocked his apartment in preparation for his arrival. His clothes hang neatly in the closet, freshly laundered and free of the smell of the imposter who had worn them. The dishes are clean, stacked neatly in the cupboard and waiting to hold bowls of the stew he found waiting in the ice box. Fresh bread, wrapped in brown paper and printed with the name “Kowalski” sits next to the mugs. 

It’s almost as though he hadn’t spent eight months locked in the cellar. 

They had found him during a routine check of the apartment. They hadn't even been looking for him, just for clues as to where he might have been stashed away. To hear Tina tell the story, the aurors weren't even going to check the cellar, convinced that it was rented to another tenant. But Tina had insisted, suspicious of the new lock on the connecting door. 

Inside they had found Graves, all but one foot through death’s door. The room reeked of human excrement and sweat, the odor hitting them before they could cast a _lumos_ and check for danger. To hear the other aurors tell the story, Tina had thrown herself down the stairs while screaming his name. She had omitted this detail in her personal telling, and he hadn't asked. 

Graves sets the parcel of cards, pictures, pajamas, and the bamboo on the kitchen counter; crossing to the main hallway and the door to the cellar. The lock is steel, out of place with the brass fixtures on the rest of the door. The metal is cool to the touch, and resists his whispered spell. Like the cuffs that had confined him to the cellar, it's made to be withstand magical assault. For a second he can feel the cold kiss of metal on his wrists, and he quickly retracts his hand. 

The cuffs had been unlike anything he had experienced during his years in magical law enforcement. They were crafted to resist spells, which was industry standard. What had made them unique was the fact they turned spells back onto the owner. If he tried to cast a spell the magic fizzled back up through his veins, scorching and twisting and leaving him panting on the ground. It was an effective method to keep him from trying. 

Graves decides to leave the door for another day. It has absolutely nothing to do with the pang of fear that resonates in his chest at the thought of descending into the darkness of the cellar again, and everything to do with the lateness of the hour and the stew in the icebox. It had been almost a year since he had eaten something that wasn't scraps or hospital food. But his feet carry him past the kitchen and into the bedroom, where new sheets wait under the heavy quilt his mother sent him off to school with. 

The quilt was worse for wear, ink stains and potion spills dotting the blue and gold pattern. They traced his years in school, sitting cross legged on the bed as he did his class work. The scorch near the bottom left corner was when he and his friends had tried to set up an impromptu potions lab on his bed. He couldn't remember what they had been trying to brew, only that thirty minutes in the smell of burning cloth had crept into their noses. There's a new stain, wrapped around the top edge of the quilt. A deep, rusty brown; too familiar after his years as an auror. 

Graves rotates the quilt clockwise and climbs into bed. The magelight, turned to low, glows dutifully next to him. Rather than turn it off, Percival rolls to face the opposite wall and tries to fall asleep. 

* * *

A sharp tapping wakes Graves up. There's a moment of disorientation as he struggles to remember that he's not in the hospital (he's not in the cellar), and the tapping is coming from the window. 

“It's just a branch.” He tells himself, voice loud in the empty room. He rolls over. The tapping continues. 

Graves hauls himself out of bed with a groan and crosses to the window, determined to do something about the noise. His bedroom window faces another apartment building, so close he could reach across and brush the chilled brick. The closest tree is two blocks north. He stares dumbly at the wall, dread creeping up his spine as he opens the window and peers down. 

Two bright eyes peer back up at him, hovering above a mouth of glittering teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://whyistheskygray.tumblr.com)! I take fic requests.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing stares back a moment longer, before a bright red light begins to flash on its head. It launches itself through the window, scurrying up the wall to rest on top of the armoire. Graves slams the window shut, trapping the two of them together in the ten by eight bedroom. The creature, surprisingly, calms once the window is shut. It’s lips cover the overly sharp teeth and the red fades away to a pale pink. There’s a sort of grace in the way it perches on the wooden edge, peering into the room. It’s webbed feet curl around the armoire as its tail taps against the top, sounding out the same pattern that Graves heard against the window pane. 

The auror slowly moves backwards, his hands grasping behind him for his wand. It flies into his hand, the movement too quick to avoid attracting the creature’s attention. The red light begins to flash again as it hackles rise. It flings itself across the room, flying straight at Graves’ face. The bubble that surrounds the creature is entirely accidental. The creature is frozen mid jump, snapping teeth inches from Graves’ face. Its bug eyes regard the auror in terror, the light on its head flashing at a faster frequency. It’s been years since Graves cast accidental magic, since his emotions overtook his training and his fear protected him from perceived danger. 

Graves paces around the bubble, heart sinking as he takes in the creature. Accidental magic under times of stress was meant to be left behind in childhood. The only wizards who performed accidental spells at his age were either undisciplined or crazy. Or both. Accidental magic is a liability in the field. Aurors were constantly facing high stress and danger, and the department couldn’t afford for any member (much less the director) to compromise an operation. 

Accidental magic makes him a time bomb. 

This revelation has Graves sinking onto the bed, elbows on his knees and watching the creature gradually calm. The blinking fades, and its long tongue flicks to brush its cage. This could be a fluke. A reaction to the stress of his newly regained freedom and how inaccesible his magic had been for a year. It’s a fluke, and he’ll be just fine in the morning. The creature blinks back, as though silently judging the mental hoops the director was putting himself through. 

“You’re hardly in the place to talk.” Graves decides to take the whatever into MACUSA in the morning. The aurors who had been visiting him had spoken of new guidelines governing the treatment of magical creatures, and he didn’t want to begin his time back with a write up from Picquery. 

* * *

The creature is hovering off in the corner when Graves wakes up, long limbs curled into itself as it naps. In the morning light he can appreciate the way the iridescent green shimmers, richer hues unwinding across the scaled skin. It glides across the room when he nudges the sphere away from the closet, still sleeping peacefully. Inside the armoire hang rows of nearly identical robes and shirts. Aurors don’t have uniforms, not in the way the No-Maj police do. But they are trained to be inconspicuous. Black robes and white shirts. Black shoes slightly scuffed from long rounds and chases through back alleys. 

Indecision makes his fingers falter over the row of shirts. These were the clothes that Grindelwald wore when masquerading in his face. They carried his memory, irreversibly woven into the fabric. To put them on would be to carry the mantle of what Grindelwald had done while wearing them. To burn them would be to let Grindelwald win one of the few pieces of normalcy from him. 

Graves pulls a shirt over his head at random. 

* * *

Everything in his office has been shifted slightly. Books are on the wrong shelves, the visitors chairs are set a foot to the left. Knick knacks and pictures have been redistributed in an order than makes no sense to Graves. There’s a new picture sitting on his desk, a young man with impossibly sharp cheekbones and a remarkably unattractive haircut. He isn’t smiling at the camera, his image doesn’t wave. It takes Graves a moment to realize that it’s a No-Maj picture, set in a delicate silver frame. He hides it in the top drawer, deciding to revisit the matter later. 

He’s in the middle of setting his office right when a knock rings sharply through the office. Picquery graces the door, a timid looking intern standing slightly behind her. She breezes in, looking around at the chaos Graves has turned his office into and the lizard thing hovering near the window. 

“Redecorating, Director?” Her voice is sharp as she steps in. “I’m sure that the priority your first day back ought to be on making sure your office is aesthetically pleasing.” 

“I couldn’t find anything.” Graves raises an eyebrow, daring the president to tell him he’s in the wrong. “I’m sure you can imagine how hard it would be to run a department when nothing is accessible.” The president raises an eyebrow, but allows the comment to pass. 

“I brought you the files that were active while Grindelwald was covering your position.” The intern, a mousy girl with large eyes behind glasses and too much hair, sets the massive pile on the visitors chair (the only clear spot in the room). 

“Excellent.” His sarcasm is biting as he glares at the pile. He’ll need to review all decisions that Grindelwald made over the past year. If it was found Grindelwald had acted in a way that compromised auror guidelines (or, God forbid, was simply illegal), entire closed cases could be reopened and criminals set free. 

“I’ll leave you to your work, Director.” Picquery tucks a piece of shockingly white hair behind her left ear, head piece left in her office, and strolls from the room. The intern tags along behind, twirling a curl around her fingers. As soon as they’ve left a young auror that Graves had never met before pokes his head in. 

“I was told you’d want to see me, sir?” Graves looks around the mess of his office, steels himself, and invites the new hire in. 

* * *

The junior auror is named Bennett. He was part of a hiring group of five, of which one had died and two had quit. It hits the director that there are members of his department he doesn't know. There are members of his department that are dead. Grindelwald would have sent their bodies home and written letters of condolence. The comfort provided by the words would be hollow now, empty words from a madman. 

Bennett is a promising enough boy. Bright, respectful. He leaves with a promise to send Scamander to look at the creature hovering in the corner of Graves’ office. The director returns to setting things right in said office, steadfastly ignoring the twenty some odd files that Picquery had left. 

An hour passes. The bric a brac is in its proper places, the files organized date-name, one of the visitors chairs is clear (the other still has the pile of files). Bennett had dropped off a cup of coffee somewhere between taking down all the pictures to re hang, and the actual re hanging process. Someone knocks at the door, softly as though the knocker were hoping Graves wouldn’t notice. 

“Come in.” Graves is facing the window, artificial sunlight streaming through as he frowns at unfamiliar book titles. They’re rudimentary history, the sort of thing someone who was pretending to be an American would need. Whoever had entered, probably an auror wanting to make small talk and apologies, shifts as they wait for acknowledgement. Finally they clear their throat. 

“I was told you wanted to see me?” The voice is polite, a clipped british accent that resonates in the enclosed space. Graves doesn’t spin around. To say he did would imply that he had acted quickly, desperately. He turns, left shoulder first, to regard this newcomer. 

“You must be Mr. Scamander.” The director sets the books on his desk, titles flat on the surface. “I’m -” 

“Director Graves, yes.” Newt looks over Graves’ left shoulder. “You interrogated me, and then sentenced me to death.” 

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Scamander.” Graves doesn’t flinch, his expression and tone remain neutral. “I’m sure you understand that those actions were not mine.” Graves can see the cogs in Newt’s head turning. How he’s tempted to ask if Percival would have acted any differently. Then his gaze focuses on the left corner and his expression shifts. 

“A clabbert.” He crosses the room, the sudden burst of energy taking Graves by surprise. It’s like watching a wind up toy spring to life, his slightly hunched posture straightening as he reaches up for the bubble the clabbert was resting in. “Repello.” The trap dissipates, and the red lights starts to flash anew as the creature drops into Newt’s arms. 

Watching the magizoologist comfort the clabbert is strange. He coos, holding it as though it were a child and rocking. Graves gets the impression that if Newt were alone he would use baby talk. The creature eventually unwinds its long limbs and wraps them around Newt’s neck and torso. 

“Completely harmless.” Newt grins at the director, as Graves watches the green arms shift around the other man’s slender neck. A little tighter and Newt would be writhing in the floor, face purple as he struggles to breath. A little tighter and the magizoologist would be dead without someone standing by to save him. The creature gives a rough parody of a grin, and Graves is reminded of those sharp teeth, snapping inches from his face. “I’m not sure what one is doing so far north, they’re native to South America.” Newt prattles on, his earlier anger (was it anger? Graves isn’t sure) forgotten. The clabbert eventually falls asleep, somewhere in the middle of Newt describing an adventure in South America where he had been cornered by two leopards and forced to use a shamans’ pipe as an impromptu blow gun. He doesn’t seem to mind when Graves returns to redecorating, and Graves finds he doesn’t mind the company. Like Picquery, Newt doesn’t treat him with kid gloves. Both men jump in surprise when the door opens, no knock to announce the visitor. 

“Newt.” Tina exclaims, hands propped on her hips. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

“Not everywhere.” Newt counters, taking the interruption to his story in stride. “If you had been looking everywhere-” 

“I’m sorry, Director.” Tina grabs the magizoologist by the elbow of his bright blue jacket. “I’m sure you’re busy.” She doesn’t give Graves a chance to confirm or deny his busyness before dragging him from the office, leaving silence where there was once cheerful chatter. Graves sighs and eyes the stack of files, out of reasons to ignore them. 

* * *

It’s almost nine when Graves drags himself away from the files. Only seven have been successfully reviewed. There are no problems with the decisions Grindelwald made. Nothing that would warrant reopening the files. The madman seemed to have acted as though he were truly the Director of Magical Security, putting aside criminal interests to uphold the law. 

Graves apparates a few blocks from his building. He had learned the hard way to never apparate into his apartment. It was too easy to be taken by surprise right after popping in somewhere, and criminals know that he has to go home eventually. The walk is pleasant, cold air nipping his nose until it’s bright red. It’s late enough that the fresh layer of snow hasn’t been disturbed, covering the streets in a blanket of white. Come morning it will be slush, but for now he can enjoy the scene. 

His front door is open, snow drifting into the foyer. Graves draws his wand, magic thrumming in his fingertips as he bites back panic. He flashes a silent lumos through the apartment, bright enough to disorient any attacker who might be waiting inside. No one is waiting inside, nothing has been taken. The only thing changed is the word “Traitor” painted across the living room wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic desperately needs a new title. If you have a suggestion put it in the comments, or hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.whyistheskygray.tumblr.com). I take fic requests there!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays + Travel + Sickness = A very late chapter! Sorry for the wait, hope this makes up for it.

The man sitting across the table from Graves is mild mannered and comfortably middle class. When aurors had knocked on his door at ten thirty-two he had been in the middle of finishing the dinner dishes, his wife washing while he dried. He went peacefully, never denying the crime he had committed. 

Graves is relatively certain that Herbert Hayden didn’t have a black eye before the aurors took him into custody. 

“Do you have an explanation for your actions, Mr. Hayden?” The director leans back in his chair, watching Hayden fiddle with the cuffs. He’s a smart man, works as an accountant for a large firm. He has a happy family, a loving wife and two children away at school. 

“It’s what you are, isn’t it?” Hayden swallows, looking up from the cuffs to glance around the whitewashed room. The auror in front of the door tenses, but Graves simply tilts his head. Silence stretches. Thirty seconds, a minute, a minute and a half. “There’s no other reason Grindelwald would have left you alive.” Hayden finally says, voice creeping up in pitch. “I mean, to hear people talk it’s not like he was making polyjuice. So you had to be giving him something. And I’ve heard that Grindelwald is _peculiar_ but you’re a bit old to be keeping around solely for _that_.” 

Sparks fly from the tips of Graves’ fingers, (thankfully) hidden under the table. “I’m not sure what you were hoping to accomplish by breaking into my home, Mr. Hayden.” His voice is carefully measured, his face neutral. There isn’t an explanation to give Hayden because Graves, about quite simply, doesn’t know. “It was an act of remarkable stupidity, to assume that the director of Magical Security wouldn’t have some form of, well, security.” Behind him the auror shifts, noticing his lack of response. 

“So what did he promise you? A chance to rule beside him?” Graves is quickly learning how Hayden ended up with a black eye. 

“Mr. Hayden, your accusations are unfounded.” The director stands, before he can lose control of himself again. “It's late, I have a living room to clean, and I believe a night in jail will serve you well.” He breezes from the room, ignoring the eyes of the auror judging him. 

* * *

_Graves wakes up in a brick room, the floor rough against his back. He casts blindly about with his magic, trying to feel the edges of his prison. He can feel nothing beyond his own conscious, hands scrabbling as he tries to push himself to his feet. A lumos bubbles past his lips, followed closely by a scream. There is no light, only searing pain that echoes through his veins._

_He cast lumos until the pain overtakes him and he falls into the confines of unconsciousness._

* * *

In the morning Graves finds the walls of his bedroom are covered in scorch marks, each about the size of his thumb nail. They radiate out from his bed, the pattern implying that he had been casting them in his night. Closer inspection shows that they aren’t fire marks as he originally thought, but the after effects of too bright light. Almost as though someone had cast a powerful _lumos_ near the wall. 

* * *

Whispers follow Graves through the halls of MACUSA, skirting around corners and under the hem of his robe. He spends the morning doing rounds, collecting the staff that Grindelwald had slowly transferred away. Some are settled happily into new positions. Maria looks at him over her desk, belly swollen with child, and tells him to try again in a few months. She had already taken advantage of her demotion to start a new phase of her life. Some are eager to hit the field once again. Tina leaves behind Wand Permits within minutes, her desk already packed neatly into a cardboard box. 

"You’re eager.” His tone is dry as he leans against her doorway, arms crossed. Wands isn’t important enough to have the same artificial windows that Security is granted; the space feels like a cave. The atmosphere is dark and damp, despite the charm that keeps moisture wicked away from the documents. 

“You would be too.” She’s already brushing past him, hair bobbing in the half light. “Do you know how long I’ve been sitting at that desk waiting for you?” 

“Eight months?” He turns and trails along behind her, doing his best to wipe the fond smile off his face. She doesn't offer a witty retort, but the tension in her shoulders grows as the click of her heels echos around the cramped hallways. “Look, Tina-” 

“Don't, feed me some line of bull, Director.” The honorific is biting as the auror whirls into the elevator, robes twirling around her knees. Graves steps in, bringing them chest to chest as Tina refuses to step back. “Yes, eight months. Eight months in Wands, not understanding why you could barely be bothered to give me the time of day. Eight months of wondering what-” Her voice breaks as she looks down, anger draining from the slope of her shoulders. “Wondering what I had done wrong. Eight months of reviewing every decision I had made; lying awake at night and listening to Queenie breathe and not understanding.” 

“I'm sorry.” Graves says after a beat of silence. “I'm sorry that he put you through that.” The extent of the damage Grindelwald had done to his department strikes Graves in the tiny elevator, hurtling towards the office he had only just reclaimed. “But I need you to trust me, Tina. If you can't do that, I don't have a position for you.” The ultimatum is harsh, even in his ears - to ask for blind trust so soon after Grindelwald had worn his face. Tina looks at the ceiling, Graves can see tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. 

“How long can I think about it?” The question hits Graves like a punch to the gut. 

“I'll expect either your transfer request or your desk to be occupied by tomorrow morning.” She nods, eyes slipping shut as tears threaten to spill down her cheeks. “Take the day, talk to your sister.” Graves offers by way of apology as the elevator doors open. Tina exits blindly before two accountants enter, chattering about someone’s affair and someone’s baby. One of the accountants offers him a flash of a smile as she fixes her skirt, red lipstick a bright pop of color against the neutral outfit. 

* * *

The handwriting in the Grindelwald files is damnably similar to his own, from the slant in his ‘t’s to the loop at the end of his signature. Graves finds himself nodding along with the observations. If he didn't know better, Graves would have been convinced that Grindelwald was an Auror, or had at least studied American Magical Law. There’s the sudden mental image of Grindelwald awake, late in the night, hunched over the legal books that Graves kept for reference. 

“Sir?” A soft knock interrupts his musings. Bennett pokes his head in the door, smile nervous. “We were wondering what you wanted us to do with Hayden? It's after lunch, and no one’s been in to see him all day.” 

“All day?”Graves pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. 

“Well, Abernathy just went in to see him. Something about illegal wards?” The look on Bennett’s face means that something has gone very wrong and he’s trying to find the best way to say it. 

“You might as well spit it out.” Graves stands, slipping on his robe and straightening the lapels with quick, efficient moves. 

“He said something about illegal wards and Hayden going free. That’s really all I understood before I came to get you.” Bennett doesn’t babble, the words are carefully chosen as he back peddles so that Graves can exit the office. 

“Thank you, Bennett. You can resume your duties.” Graves wonders, briefly, what sort of relationship Grindelwald had with Bennett that made the junior auror so eager to please. Hayden’s spiteful jab about Grindelwald’s peculiarities jumps to mind before Graves banishes it. If that were the case, it really wouldn’t be any of his business. 

The halls are empty are Graves heads to the holding cells, the lunch hour and the snow free day forcing people into the icy sunshine. Hayden’s cell is empty. The bed is still tousled. A quick chat with the Auror on duty reveals that Abernathy had taken him to an interrogation room. 

“I hope you have an excellent explanation for this.” Graves opens the door a little too forcefully, eyes narrowing at the sight of Herbert Hayden, uncuffed, eating a sandwich and an apple. 

“I was just explaining to our _friend_ here that the wards on your apartment aren’t actually legal for private use.” Abernathy has one ankle crossed over his knee, hands clasped as he smile up at the director. “In fact, and as I’m sure you know Director, they’re only available for commercial use on a case by case basis due to their tendency to tag random passerbys.” 

“That must have slipped my mind.” Graves replies slowly, leaning against the back wall. From this position he can look Hayden in the eye, but Abernathy will have to turn to look at him. Abernathy stiffens, but doesn’t turn. 

“Due to the fact the information on who vandalized your apartment was obtained illegally, I’m afraid we have no choice but to allow Mr. Hayden to leave once he’s finished his lunch.” Abernathy’s hands move as he speaks, wrist and fingers twisting as though he were practicing a spell. “And I’m sure you’ll be writing an apology to Mr. and Mrs. Hayden, due to the emotional duress you’ve put them through.” 

“Is that so?” The non answer is careful, measured. Percival Graves didn’t become Director of Magical Security without learning to play the politicians game. Hayden, strangely quiet, watches the pair. “I’ll be sure to put that on my to do list.” Graves leaves the room before he can lose his temper. The sound of his footsteps sends the people coming back from lunch scattering, desperate to avoid one of the Director’s infamous moods. 

* * *

Newt Scamander, of all people, is waiting in his office. The clabbert is cradled in his arms, looking content and warm and Graves can’t help but to envy it. 

“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Scamander?” Graves sheds his robe, shaking it slightly before hanging it on the hook next to the door. Newt smiles slightly to the left of Graves’ face. 

“I was wondering if you’d like your clabbert back.” 

“My clabbert.” Graves says slowly, hovering incredulously over each syllable. 

“Well, you’re the one who found her. And they make excellent watchdogs, which is something I hear that you’re in desperate need of.” Newt is gaining energy as he speaks, winding up for another long spiel about the damned creature. “In fact, it’s not uncommon for witches and wizards to put them-” 

“I understand, Mr. Scamander.” Graves cuts across him loudly, ignoring the wounded look as the excitement drops from Newt’s shoulders. He focuses, instead, on the heavy wooden desk with its small brass ornaments lined in a neat row. “And I thank you for stopping by, but there is some work that desperately needs to get done.” 

“I - ah - I understand. Of course.” Graves can hear the hurt in the magizoologist’s voice as he stands and collects his ever present suitcase. “You’re a very busy man, Director. Good day.” The door swings closed behind him; and Graves, finally looking at the chair Newt had been perched in, sees a long gray and yellow scarf lying in the floor. The door swings open again. 

“Back for your - Abernathy.” Graves sighs as he looks up at the politician. “Is there something else I can do for you?” 

“I need your signature on this reprimand.” Smugness radiates from the other man, the form loose in his hand. 

“Dare I ask who in my department you’re trying to reprimand? Is it Tina? I told her to take the day off.” Abernathy raises an eyebrow before bringing the paper up to be read. 

“A complaint filed against Mr. Percival Graves, for performing illegal magic in the City of New York.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.whyistheskygray.tumblr.com.). I take fic requests both in the comments and on tumblr!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days? Crazy.

“You put us in a hard position, Director Graves.” Picquery’s voice rings through the empty auditorium. The stone benches, blanketed in a fine layer of dust since the last Magical Congress, carry the whispers of the politicians who normally occupy them. “MACUSA desires to be understanding of the trials you have recently been through, but the law does not allow for extenuating circumstances.” The other department heads nod along, backs straight as they do their best to look imposing. Graves remembers what it was like to sit on the other side of the table. To stare down one of MACUSA’s own and tell them to pack up their desk and leave. He remembers one case in particular, a secretary (a single mother) who was passing information to the press for cash. He remembers how she cried when the aurors led her back to her cell to wait for a transfer to prison. 

He can’t help but wonder if he will share her fate. 

The wards were illegal. Picquery knew about them, had given him unofficial permission to use them, and warned him not to get caught. She understood that his line of work was a dangerous one, even if the law did not. They had been up for years, since the first time somebody had broken into his house after his promotion. Only three people knew that they existed. One was sitting in front of him, crown on her head; one was at home with her sister, trying to decide if she was quitting her job; one was in custody, he had tortured Graves until the auror told him how to get through. 

“I believe the only appropriate response is for him to be suspended.” Abernathy stands beside him, present as the wizard who brought the charges. “There has been too much controversy surrounding his return to office, and a charge of illegal magic is only going to strengthen the rumors that-” 

“Thank you for your opinion, Mr. Abernathy.” Picquery cuts across the politician. The department heads begin to shift, murmurs breaking out. Picquery waits for them to still before continuing, her hands steepled under her chin. “We have thought long and hard on how to best address this accusation.” Her famous deadpan stare drills into Graves, stripping him to the bone. There’s a worm of worry in his chest. This could be the moment Picquery decides that he is no longer worth defending; this could be the moment he loses everything that he had fought for. 

“After much deliberation this council has decided that, given the recent guest who was staying in Director Graves’ apartment, there is no way of knowing who set the wards. Because Grindelwald was engaging in illegal activities, we believe he had ample motivation to set the wards on the apartment. Therefore, this council is dismissing the charges and expects Director Graves to resume his duties, effective immediately.” Whispers break out again, council members leaning in to discuss Picquery’s blatant disregard of procedure. He can see the confusion in their eyes, observe the way it turns to distrust. Abernathy stiffens besides the Director, and Graves can feel the anger radiating from him. It’s easy to believe that the other man is simply trying to uphold the law; to protect MACUSA from Grindelwald’s fanatics. It’s a noble cause, one that Graves can understand. 

“This council is dismissed.” Picquery stands, collects her things, and leaves behind a thousand unanswered questions. The department heads follow her lead. Some leave without sparing the director a glance. Others step down from the platform, shake Graves’ hand and welcome him back, before slowly trickling from the room. Soon the only two people left are Graves and Abernathy. 

“Abernathy.” Graves extends his hand, face schooled as he tells himself that the politician is doing what he believes is best for MACUSA. The other man ignores his hand, scowling as he stalks from the room. The benches watch Percival collect himself: straighten his collar, smooth back his hair. They judge, silently, the feeling of relief that creeps into his bones at the thought of going to his office and hiding away from the chaos that has followed him since Tina found him in his cellar. 

* * *

The No-Maj picture is heavy in Graves’ hand as he leans back in his chair, examining it. There’s no name on the back, no date that would tell him if the boy was a contact that Grindelwald had made abroad or someone who had been acquired in America. There’s nothing but a strong sense of sentimentality and a slight crease in the upper left corner, as though it had been carried in a pocket or wallet. Graves wonders what the importance of this No-Maj is, why he’s significant enough for Grindelwald to keep on his desk. The answer might lie in one of the last three files, waiting on his desk to be reviewed. 

Graves is tired of going through the files. Of seeing how his job can be done flawlessly by a madman; so flawlessly that not even Picquery suspected something was wrong. So flawlessly that the only person who guessed that Grindelwald was lurking under the facade of his face was a stranger who had never met Graves, but was familiar with Grindelwald’s rhetoric. 

“Director.” The door clicks open. Picquery invites herself in, uncharacteristically alone. 

“Madame President.” Graves stands, the formality stiff between the normally familiar pair. The president does not flinch, but her lips tighten and her fingers twitch. She recognizes the gesture for what it is, an expression of anger at the events of the morning. “Please, have a seat.” Picquery settles into one of the wooden visitors chairs, crossing her legs at the knee as she regards Graves. 

“I’m sure you understand that I took the only option that was available.” Her voice, just like everything else about her, is composed. “Dismissing you wasn’t an acceptable outcome.” 

“And flaunting procedure was better?” Graves sits and hides the mysterious picture back in the top drawer of his desk, taking the time to collect his thoughts and emotions before they can get the better of him. It wouldn’t be proper to lose his temper so soon after Picquery risked her reputation for him. “Clearing my name in a manner that broadcasted my guilt to the entirety of MACUSA was better than reprimanding me?” 

“It was better than dismissing you.” 

“I’m useless if my department can’t trust me.” The Director before Graves had refused to step down after an operation had uncovered that he might have been turning a blind eye to certain cartels. It had never been proven, but the suspicion had been enough to turn the department against him. When the aurors didn’t trust their director, they didn’t trust the decisions the director made or the orders the director issued. When a director wasn’t trusted or listened to, the entire department fell apart and crime flourished. 

“We worked too long to put you behind that desk. I’m not allowing a glorified secretary to remove you from it.” Picquery focuses on Graves, unwavering. “Too many sacrifices were made to get you to where you are now. I have supported you and vouched for you the whole way. To call doubt onto you is to call doubt onto me, and that is not an acceptable outcome.” 

A moment of silence stretches between them, pink rising in Picquery’s cheeks. He hadn’t seen her blush in years, not since she was a first year (and he was a fifth) and someone had mocked her Georgian accent. She had been given detention for decking the boy in the jaw, and over the years her accent had faded. By the time they met again (she was an intern for a senator, he had just been hired as a junior auror) the accent was gone entirely. He never asked about it. 

“Understood.” Graves nods, the single word his expression of forgiveness. “I’m sure you have actual duties to attend to today, and can’t afford to sit around and chat about old times for the sake of chatting.” Picquery nods standing gracefully. 

“Director Graves.” She rolls the title in her mouth, a satisfied smile skirting the corners of her lips. 

“Madame President.” 

* * *

Tina is not at her desk. The cardboard box is there, packed up neatly since its sudden departure from wands. A few aurors look at him apologetically, shrugging to indicate that they hadn’t seen her either. They didn’t know about the ultimatum hanging over her head, didn’t understand the urgency behind Graves’ actions. 

“Can you send Queenie Goldstein to my office?” Graves grabs the sleeve of the first person who passes by. They have an intern badge and a nervous smile, and run off to find Queenie so quickly that Graves blinks. He’s used to prompt obedience, but the nervous energy that surrounds the new hires takes him by surprise. It could be a desire to prove themselves to the real Director Graves (to prove being hired wasn’t a fluke). It could be a fear that Grindelwald instilled in them. 

Queenie’s knock is distinctive. Three staccato bursts, a pause, and two more sharp knocks. There’s no point in interrupting the pattern by telling her to come in. She’ll finish her knock and open the door (invitation or no invitation). “You wanted to see me, Director Graves?” Her head pops in, blonde curls half obscured by the white door frame. 

“Ms. Goldstein, please come in.” Graves sets aside the second to last of the Grindelwald files. It was the one on Newt and Tina’s adventures through New York, culminating in the escape of the magizoologist from auror custody. 

“Are you reading that old thing? I promise that Tina and Mistah Scamander were much better behaved than ol’ Grindy was presenting.” Queenie smiles at Graves, adjusting her navy skirt to flow over her knees. 

“Ms. Goldstein, please stay out of my mind.” Graves carefully constructs his mental guards, scolding himself for forgetting Queenie’s ability. Eight months ago it was a slip he never would have made; he didn’t find it too difficult to keep the woman from his thoughts. 

“But you so rarely let me have a peek, Director. That’s why Grindy was able to pull the fast one on me.” 

“It’s rude, Ms. Goldstein. I know you know better.” Graves tips his head to the left, knowing there isn’t a point in chastising Queenie. People have been scolding her for years, and it’s yet to keep her from peeping into the minds of others. “I didn’t want to talk to you about Mr. Scamander, actually. I was hoping you could tell me where your sister is.” 

“Oh she’s not feeling well, Director Graves. Ladies problems, if you catch my drift.” Queenie can’t lie to save her life. Her voice rises an octave and her words stumble over one another in a frantic race to the tip of her tongue. Graves doesn’t respond, simply crosses his arms and waits for her to tell the truth. “She’s still thinkin’ on what you told her last night.” 

“Did she talk to you about it?” Sometimes Queenie speaks without thinking, especially when nervous. She’s accidentally sold her sister out more than once in the past. A twinge of guilt blooms in Graves’ chest. It’s underhanded to take advantage of Queenie like this, but the wait is gnawing at him. 

“Well, she mentioned it.” Another lie. “And you know, Credence’s death hit her hard, and the No-Maj’s have been protestin’ more since the death of the Second Salem lady. I really think she needs some time to get her head all back in order before she can hit the streets.” 

“Creedence? Second Salem?” 

“It’s really not my place to say, Director Graves.” Queenie’s hand covers her mouth, eyes wide. “You won’t tell her I said anything, will you? I’m sure she’ll be in by tomorrow to give you her resignation.” Distress blossoms across her face. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that either. Goodness, Director. I think I’m just gonna excuse myself.” She stands and leaves suddenly. 

Graves steeples his fingers, leaning his forehead against his hands as he swallows down disappointment. Tina was one of the best aurors on the team, her loss would be a hard blow. More than that, Tina was one of his few confidants. Grindelwald had destroyed the trust that he rarely built with other people. 

It wasn’t fair. 

One would think that after being held captive by a dark wizard for nearly a year, he would have been welcomed back with condolences and outstretched arms. Instead there were rumors flying about his relationship with Grindelwald, half his team was refusing to come back, and a reprimand had been filed against him for illegal magic. To top it all off, apparently there had been a No-Maj death that was sparking massive protests across New York. Protests inevitably gave way to violence, and No-Maj violence never ended well for the wizarding community.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that chapters two and three desperately need a rewrite. I didn't realize how rushed and thin they sounded when I posted them, but travel seems to have affected my work more than I originally thought. Opinions?
> 
> As always, hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.whyistheskygray.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This has actually become my longest, most popular work on AO3! Thanks so much to usual suspects who make it possible. Nobody writes solely for themselves, and everyone's kind words on the last chapter definitely helped make this chapter possible.

As a child, Graves had liked to sit on the rail of the third story balcony of his family’s brownstone and watch traffic. The balcony was attached to his mother’s sewing room (she had claimed the sunlight was necessary for her work) and always smelled faintly of the perfume she wore. No one ever looked up, and those who did never yelled for him to get down. One day the cook’s son decided to perch precariously on the edge, eating a peach as the summer sun beat down on his head. 

Witnesses said he fell silently - that there had been nothing, and then there had been a broken body on the sidewalk. 

Graves knew better. He had startled the older boy, and the boy (his name had slipped into the obscurity of time) had pitched forward, his startled yelp growing into a scream before being cut sickeningly short. Graves never confessed, but the memory of the scream echoed in his dreams for years, the demon he never shared with anyone else. The reason he never ate peaches. 

Later, older, Graves would learn that the balcony was covered with a concealment charm. That was why no one noticed him sitting on the rail. It was why no one heard the cook’s son scream. 

* * *

Graves stumbles from bed, feet tripping over each other as he feels blindly about for the wall, and then the door. Then down the hall to the bathroom. Night terrors about falling had been left behind in childhood, tucked neatly under his bed at Ilvermony. They were the sort of thing that boys were expected to have and outgrow, like shoes and pants and favorite books. Yet he had woken with the wind stinging his cheeks, whistling in his ears as he headed towards the inky floor that swirled beneath him, forever fifteen feet away. 

The cold water is sharp against his face, snapping him into reality and away from the endless pit that he had been fumbling through. The magelight, which sprung into existence when the door opened, illuminates the bags that had blossomed under his eyes ever since the mediwitches took him off the sleeping draught. Sleeplessness from pain was their concern, night terrors fell outside their jurisdiction. 

Graves avoids looking himself in the eye as he exits. It's easier to avoid the guilt when he can't see it etched into his face. 

There is still stew in the kitchen, waiting to be soaked up by slightly stale bread. A quick charm heats it, the mug growing warm in his hands. The warmth is welcome, cutting through the frosty air. The super hadn't turned the heat on, instead allowing the tenants to run their ovens in a desperate attempt to warm small patches of the apartments. 

Grindelwald, when wearing his face, had never looked guilty. It was part of the reason that Graves struggled to believe no one had noticed the difference between himself and the double. Guilt clung to his being, etched into his face and woven into his veins. It was more than a mantel to bear, it was in his essence. 

The soup is too hot against his tongue, pulling him from his musings. It has a good flavor, once the pain goes down. The eggplant is soft, the beef well seasoned. Queenie must have made it; her sister couldn't cook to save a life. The bamboo was still living on his sink, pebbles damp from when he watered it as he made his morning coffee. Tina had been right - even after neglecting it for a few days it stood as proudly as when he had gotten it. 

The mug, still half full, is abandoned on the counter when the sun paints the sky orange and forces Percival into the snowy streets. 

* * *

Weeks pass. MACUSA hangs Christmas decorations (Queenie hangs Hanukkah decorations over Tina’s desk in Wands). Each morning Graves wakes up screaming. He's taken to putting silencing charms on his room. The landlord (the son of the little old woman who Graves had meant to have tea with) woke him up by barging through the bedroom door. There had been a revolver in the landlord's hand and terror on his face, and awkward apologies as he took in the half a dozen blankets heaped on the bed. 

The heat in the building was turned on the next morning. 

Bennett continues to be overly helpful, dropping cups of coffee at Graves’ office when he thinks the older man is paying attention. Graves notices each one, nods his thanks and retracts his hands when Bennett's linger over his. 

“He fucked me over this desk.” The junior auror finally says, jaw set. It's late, the black sky pressing against the false windows, waiting for the stars to pin it back into place. Graves does his best not to flinch. “I wanted him to, he was charming and charismatic and commanding.” 

“Bennett.” Graves is silenced by a single raised finger. He understands, instinctively, that the junior auror isn't confessing for Graves’ benefit. This is a confession to the only God that the boy (because he's a boy, barely twenty two) has left who will listen. 

The kiss still takes Graves by surprise. 

The younger man tastes like break room coffee and peanuts. It's obvious that this kiss is an afterthought - potential energy turned kinetic - and it would be so simple to allow Bennett to kiss him thoroughly. To stand by and concede control as he had done with so many things recently. 

Graves pushes away, hands wrapping around Bennett’s shoulders as he wrestles control from the junior auror. The younger man relinquishes his grasp surprisingly easily, the backs of his thighs hitting the desk as Graves stands. 

“Bennett. Aaron. This isn't what you want.” Graves winces internally at his own tone, harsh and completely at odds with the hand that slips up to cup Bennett’s cheek. Tears brush the director’s finger tips, cool against hot skin. The younger man pulls away, scrabbling over the desk and out the door without another word. 

Graves is left standing in his office, fingers still wet. Something is going to have to change. 

* * *

Change comes in the form of an auror with a broken arm. He had been watching the Second Salem crowd, lingering at the park during one of their rallies. The girl they had hauled onto the stage, dressed in all black and adorned with a pointed hat, was a terrified no-maj. And the auror, young and idealistic and incapable of working undercover in the face of injustice, had tried to intervene. For his trouble there was an international scandal, a few dozen memories still in need of wiping, and pictures of a flash of light that might or might not have been erupting from a an object that might or might not have been a wand. 

“Director Graves.” The president’s voice is sharp as she breezes into his office, not even bothering to knock. Beneath the facade of neutral disinterest anger boils, ready to spill over like an unattended pot. 

“Madame President.” He does not stand, but inclines his head. The files spread before him say enough about what has kept him preoccupied for the last day and a half. An injured auror, an international scandal, and the fear of witches and wizards throughout New York City. _What if I’m next?_ They whisper, moving in terrified clumps through the safe streets of magical neighborhoods. When they are forced to venture beyond their borders they leave children and lovers at home, skirting the fine line between the no-maj and the magic world. 

“This is getting out of hand, Director.” She crosses her arms, glaring down at him. It is a look that would cause a lesser man to cower in fear. Graves merely tightens his lips. 

“I’m doing everything possible to diffuse the Second Salmers. We don’t know how many people were at the rally, and I understand-” 

“I can’t keep taking the fall for you, Percival.” The outburst is sudden, passionate. It forces a pink tinge to the president’s cheeks. “Don’t you understand? All of the United States is panicking, and the more excuses I make for your mistakes, the more I am doubted by the national and international community. This will ruin us, Percival. Ruin everything we have established, the sanctuary we have created. There will be panic and bloodshed.” Her chest heaves slightly, her crown askew, her famous composure completely lost. “There will be _war,_ Percival. And it will be our faults.” 

“You think I don’t realize that?” Graves’ voice is tight. He still does not stand, if only so he can keep his hands hidden beneath his desk. The coffee, cool in its mug, quivers slightly on his desk. Papers shuffle, as though a breeze is circling the room. Neither notice. 

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Percy.” Seraphina drops into the guest chair, shoulders bowed with weariness. Graves has never seen her so broken, tired. Defeated. “They’re calling for your removal. They want someone to protect them, and as of right now you’re the man who couldn’t even protect himself. How do I tell the country that they’re safe in your hands, when your return to office has been one scandal after another?” 

“Give me three weeks. If I haven’t put the Second Salem business to rest by then I’ll step down.” The words hurt, and Graves has to force them from his mouth. The papers give one last rustle before stilling. 

“Do you think that will appease the masses?” Seraphina’s -- no, the president’s mask begins to slip back into place, careful piece by careful piece until there is no sign of the emotional outpouring she just had. Graves wishes he could rebuild himself so easily. 

“That’s your job, not mine.” He rests his hands on the leather blotter on top of his desk, fingers laced tightly. He places power back in her hands, a reminder of their positions outside of their friendship. She nods, stands, glares down her nose at him. 

“Three weeks, Director. Not a day more.” 

* * *

Grindelwald is still in his cell, magic secured behind cuffs that aren’t as twisted as the ones he had kept Graves locked in. The Director had been avoiding visiting him, a small part hoping that the red tape would clear and they would ship him to England to await trial there. But the two countries were locked in a war to see who would prosecute him - the Americans who still believed in capital punishment, or the British with Azkaban (a fate arguably worse than death). 

“If it isn’t my favorite little pet.” The dark wizard smiles as an auror chains his hands to the desk. “I was wondering when you’d come and visit me.” 

“How’s captivity treating you?” Graves shoots back, muscle in his jaw twitching. 

“Better than freedom seems to be treating you. Have you gone _grayer_ since escaping your cellar?” The auror goes to stand behind the Graves, directly in front of the door. An extra barrier between Grindelwald and freedom. The dark wizard is thinner than he had been when masquerading as Graves. His cheekbones are more prominent, his face gaunt. Security had made him shave the ridiculous mustache he had insisted on maintaining. 

“I need to know everything you learned about Second Salem.” Graves doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Anything that you left unrecorded, anything that might help with demilitarizing the group, anything-” The director is cut off by a burst of laughter. 

“Or what?” Grindelwald manages between gasps of breath. “You’ll throw me in jail?” 

“Not even you want to see the magical community forced into hiding.” 

“They won’t hide forever, pet. Sooner or later they’ll insist on leaving their sanctuaries. Their haven, tucked between the muggle streets and shops and homes. Sooner or later there will be war. There will be bloodshed, and the muggles will finally be put where they belong.” 

Graves leaves Grindelwald with a new black eye and a sense of dread churning in the director’s stomach. The auror who had worked the investigation under the dark wizard had opted to stay in Wands, and Graves wouldn’t be able to convince her to help alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, hit me up on [Tumblr!](http://whyistheskygray.tumblr.com) I take fic requests both there and in the comment section. If you're not sure if it's a fandom I'm familiar with, just ask!


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